Reversal of Fortune
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark discovers that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+ for small, fairly discreet puddles of blood.

**Author's Note**: Some people get an angel. Mark gets a snake. It's a crappy life. This is a missing scene from the episode, 'If You Could See What I See'. The plot thus far: Mark hires his former cellmate's widow, Millie Denton, to pick up the housekeeping slack at the estate. Millie is a sweet, motherly, closet psychic who eventually predicts Mark's death but is a little sketchy on the details. Despite her dire predictions, Mark and Milt go to a party at bad guy Wendell Price's house. They've been looking into the probability that Price, and his client, Dex Falcon, have already murdered a lawyer named Clarkson. Mark is lured out back to the pool house, where he is shot by the two villains.

What follows below goes in the spot between that scene, and the next, when Price and Falcon dump the not-quite-departed McCormick into a ravine, where he lingers on for the rest of the episode.

This first appeared in Volume One of the fund-raising fics for STAR for Brian--thanks again to all those who supported the cause. Your donations have been much appreciated.

**Reversal of Fortune**

By L. M. Lewis

There was something cold pressed up against his cheek. It took a moment before he realized it was the tile floor and he was in the pool house at Wendell Price's place.

_You were shot_.

_Well,_ he thought, _doesn't feel much like that. They must've missed. _

His arm was a little sore, though. One of them had been twisting it. He lifted his head. Neither Falcon nor Price was in sight.

The party was still going on, though it sounded distant, muted. He got to his knees, then his feet. The arm wasn't as bad as he'd first anticipated, just a dull ache, really. He looked out the window, past the strings of lights reflecting in the dark waters of the pool. It all seemed a long way off.

_You ought to get back in there and warn him._

"It's okay."

He jumped and turned. The voice was vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. An older man, gray-haired, maybe someone he'd seen at the party.

"You must've scared them off," Mark said, after a moment's thought, even though it didn't sound quite right to him. "Thanks, I think they were going to kill me."

The man shrugged. "It's nothing."

"Did you see which way they went?" Mark frowned out through the window. He was still worried, though the exact nature of his concern was getting a little hard to grasp. "Two guys. One of 'em had a gun."

The man hadn't replied. Mark finally turned back to him. "They must've passed you as you came out here."

"No, no one. You were alone."

Mark was still frowning. It didn't make much sense, unless, of course, he'd been out here even longer than he'd realized. He looked down at his watch. "Dammit." The crystal was broken. The watch had stopped at a few minutes after ten.

"Do you know what time it is?" he asked the older man impatiently.

"Time is relative."

Mark gave him an aggravated look. "Not when there's a guy running around with a gun."

"Especially then." The older man smiled wisely. "Choices get made. People may die."

Mark froze where he stood. "Okay," he said slowly, "who the hell are you?"

The man, still smiling, said, "Mr. Ouroboros. We've met before, several times, though it is possible you don't remember."

McCormick was frowning again; he thought he might have seen the name on a file back at the estate, but it was elusive. "Are you with Price and Falcon?" he asked warily, stepping sideways, a little closer to the door.

"I'm with everyone."

Not exactly the answer McCormick had wanted to hear. He sidled, nearer still to the door, trying not to be obvious about it.

Ouroboros shook his head with a smile that was almost sad. "It's not too late, you know."

"I thought you couldn't tell me what time it was?" Mark said a little testily. His hand was almost on the doorknob.

"What I meant was," the older man said patiently, "it's not too late to alter what has happened."

"What _has_ happened?" Mark asked nervously.

"Well, now, maybe you're just being a little obtuse about this." It was Ouroboros' turn to be testy. He followed it with an offhanded gesture toward the floor.

Mark wasn't quite sure how he'd missed it, the body lying there. A quick, startled inspection, then a glance back up at the other man.

"Am I, ah . . .?"

"I said there was still time, didn't I?"

Mark nodded mutely. The guy on the floor looked convincingly past caring.

"I thought you'd be more, um, imposing."

"Oh, _him_? The guy with the scythe and the robes and the hood and all?" Ouroboros looked slightly peeved. "Talks in all capital letters, for the effect. He's really just my warm-up act, you know. But once in a while I shuffle the deck and step in first."

Mark nodded again, keeping one eye on the body. Still breathing, he was pleased to note. "You said it's not too late. Maybe you could go tell Hardcastle what's happened."

"That's not how I work."

Mark gave him a quick, irritated glance. "Then what the hell _can_ you do?"

Ouroboros laughed almost solemnly. "See," he said, "that's what I've always liked about you, Mark; absolutely irreverent, _and_ you roll with the punches."

He seemed to have moved closer, without McCormick being quite sure how he'd accomplished it. Mark felt an almost irresistible desire to open the door and escape into the night, almost as quickly pushed down by the certainty that if he fled this place, the man on the floor would not draw another breath.

He said it again, slowly, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice. "What can you do?"

"Anything within the grasp of time. All moments exist as one for me. You move across time as a drop of rain moves down a pane of glass. The glass is all there, all of the time. Pick a moment, the point that changed everything." Ouroboros spread his hands expansively.

And then Mark was sitting at a kitchen table in an apartment he thought he never wanted to see again, papers spread out in front of him—bills, mostly. He felt the same frustration that he'd felt that day, when he'd realized the cost of insuring the Porsche was triple the insurance on Melinda's car—Melinda Marshall, a woman who couldn't parallel park without someone to hold traffic for her.

Frustration, yes, and then she had stepped up behind him. He knew the moment, like an echo, he knew what was going to happen seconds before it actually did, and he managed to suppress the shudder as she touched the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly.

He supposed he'd _loved_ her. God only knows why. It seemed unfathomable now. _Now? When is now?_

"Whatsa matter, hon? You're all tense."

Her voice was light and musical, and entirely without a bit of common sense, he realized, too late to do a younger, less _wise_ version of himself any good. _Or maybe . . ._ He could hear the words forming in his mind. 'Hey, honey, mind if I put the Porsche in your name? It'll save me a bundle on car insurance.'

And, just as quickly, he overrode them, pushing the insurance bill to the side. "Look," he said. "I'm coming up a little short this month. Tony offered me some repo work. Cash on the barrel."

Melinda made a little face, as though she could think of better things to do with his time. That was okay, he figured. He didn't think he was ever going to be in the mood with her again.

"There, see how easy that was?" Ouroboros was standing alongside him. They were outside now, by the pool. The party was still going on. Mark shook his head to clear the momentary confusion and took a step in the direction of the pool house window, peering in.

No one there. No body on the floor. He glanced over his shoulder, amazed. "It worked." And then he looked down at himself and added, "I'm okay?" There was something hesitant in the question, but he was already turning to head back up to the house. "I gotta go warn the judge."

It was a slight clearing of the other man's voice that halted him.

"What now?" Mark asked, but he'd come to a full stop.

"Things have changed a bit."

"Yeah," McCormick smiled to himself as though he was savoring a memory. "Hey, I didn't get busted for taking the Porsche." His smile broadened. "I never went to Quentin. _Damn_. I won a race at Fontana that weekend—the weekend I would've been busted."

The smile dropped away then. Ouroboros was giving him a stern look. "And after that . . ." Mark halted; he was running out of things to say. "What happened after that? I think I had a fast ride over in New Mexico." McCormick was staring down at his feet, not wanting to look at the other man, very much not wanting to hear what he was going to say next.

"Well," Ouroboros said gently, "that one didn't work out so well. But everyone agreed it was the other driver's fault."

Mark raised his head slowly, looking a little grim. "Okay, well, doesn't matter. There were always risks involved. I knew that." He took a few more determined steps toward the house.

"He's not there."

McCormick looked back at him sharply.

The other man shrugged. "He's not. He was killed two and a half years ago in a mugging in Washington, D.C., senseless street crime. Very ironic, him being such a proponent of law and order. There were a couple of angry editorials, some heated commentary on a few talk radio programs—that lasted a day or two. He's gone."

Mark opened his mouth and then shut it again, looking back up at the house. Then he brought his gaze back to Ouroboros, with a spark of anger. "It was all a trick."

"Well," the older man looked not at all offended, "not that. Sometimes, though, the obvious solution is not the correct one. Try again."

He was standing in front of the house at Gulls Way. Hardcastle was walking past him, headed for the car. The recollection of San Quentin, back in its entirety, hit Mark like an almost physical blow. He halted in his steps.

The judge shot him an impatient, questioning look.

McCormick finally managed to gather his thoughts. "Millie's right," he said emphatically.

The judge shook his head. "You're not falling for all that psychic mumbo jumbo, are you?"

"I'm going to be shot." He tried to say it in a calm, even tone, but he knew at once that it'd come out sounding crazy. Oddly, though, the judge wasn't looking at him as if he were.

"That," the older man said patiently, "is nonsense. I don't believe this. She spooked you with a piece of pecan pie. Nobody can 'see' the future."

"It all exists, all of it at the same time. Time, I mean. We're just at one spot on it."

"Now where'd you hear _that_? You been listening to those new age talk shows again?"

"Please, Judge, this Clarkson thing—"

"—is no different than anything else. What's the matter with you? Listen, you got the heebie-jeebies about this one, you stay home and clip the hedges. I'll go interview Lonnie Summers. How dangerous can _that _be?"

"_Judge_—"

But the other man was already climbing into the car.

Darkness. The patio outside Price's pool house. Mark didn't want to look.

He looked anyway. There was a small puddle of blood beneath the body. He supposed that was a good sign. You don't bleed after you're dead.

"You didn't try very hard that time," Ouroboros said sternly.

"Well," Mark sighed, "he's right. It did sound crazy. Psychics, windowpanes, raindrops. How do I get in the middle of these things? Can I just go up there to the house and whack him on the side of the head and tell him Price and Falcon are trying to kill us?"

"You are in _there_," the other man pointed ominously toward the closed door. "They'll be back in a minute with the car. You're running out of time on this."

"I thought you said time was all relative; what happened to the damn windowpane?"

"All right, one more chance," Ouroboros huffed. "Try to get it right."

The den. He was buttoning his shirt. He knew Millie was standing behind him. He knew Hardcastle had just offered him a choice—stay behind or go to Price's party. The judge was already half way out the door to the hallway.

"Millie is right," Mark said flatly. "This is dangerous. For both of us. Let Harper get the warrant. We ought to stay here until it's ready. What difference can an hour or two make?" Hardcastle hadn't halted, hadn't turned around, hadn't even hesitated in his steps toward the front door.

"I'm staying here," McCormick said, one last ditch effort.

The pool house loomed in front of him in the shadows.

"Dammit, you didn't give me enough time," his words came out harsh and maybe a little frightened.

"I think you did all you could," Ouroboros said quietly. "You made a difference this time."

"He wasn't going to stop. He was almost out the door."

"That's how I saw it, too." The older man sighed. "Some things are immutable."

There was a dim light through the pool house window. Mark edged toward it, feeling compelled yet reluctant.

The pool of blood was larger; the body was too.

"_No_," his voice was harsher still. "You _tricked_ me."

"He's not dead, either. Things might still work out."

"Not this way, no. I'm not even _here_. I'm back at the estate. Who knows how long it'll be before Harper gets here with the damn warrant? I don't even know what time it is." He was reaching for the doorknob. "I've gotta—" He stopped sharply, he'd heard sounds behind him—car doors, a trunk, all being opened with a minimum of noise, not that anything would be heard up at the house, above the sounds of the party.

"They're back." Mark hissed. He heard more—quiet voices, two men approaching. "It's too late," he said."_Fix_ it" A demand, not a plea.

Ouroboros shrugged lightly. "A pane of glass."

He felt the tile beneath his cheek, more dull than hard or cold. Even his arm didn't hurt anymore. There were voices overhead—Falcon, Price—whispering, almost as though they didn't want to disturb him. They were having a little trouble getting organized.

_Amateur murderers, thank God._

Things might still work out.


End file.
